


Avengers Drabbles

by Valmasy



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Drabble Collection, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-29
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-02-10 22:46:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 6,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2043165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valmasy/pseuds/Valmasy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Random drabbles from my tumblr.</p><p>Newest: <br/>Chap 9 - Jarvis Learns (Tony/Pepper/Jarvis) - There's a memory hidden deep inside Vision's memory banks.<br/>Chap 10 - He Thinks (Tony Stark) - random au scene for a fic I'll never write</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Steve Dates

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brandnewfashion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brandnewfashion/gifts).



It’s the third night this week (in a long line of weeks of the same) that Tony watches surreptitiously from his seat in the common room as Natasha approves Steve’s attire. His fingers jab a little harder into his Starkpad as he pretends to not mess up the new algorithm he’s been working on. He isn’t jealous. He isn’t.

"She’s a doll," he hears Steve say about what’s-her-name-Tiff-Janice-bimbo-that-wasn’t-Tony-who’s-lucky-ass-is-getting-a-quiet-dinner-with-Captain-America-and-probably-doesn’t-understand-how-LUCKY-she-is… 

Okay, maybe Tony’s a little jealous. But just a little. 

"Tony?" Steve questions as the genius realizes he’s gripping the pad fit to snap it in half. "Do you think she’ll like the restaurant?"

"Of course," he says smoothly, perfection in hiding the bitter acidity in his tone. He secretly hopes the girl is allergic to peanuts. And he almost doesn’t manage to feel guilty about it.

Steve leaves and Tony ignores the knowing look Natasha levels on him.

Two weeks and a string of faceless dates, women and -for a surprising panic-inducing moment- men attending dinner and movies and strolls and clubs with Steve later, Tony’s done. He’s given up the ghost. He doesn’t even bother to acknowledge Steve’s date nights anymore. 

It hurts, physically, to watch the Captain get ready, Natasha throwing in a helping hand from time to time. The perfect hair. The newer, nicer clothes that fit and defined and beckoned Tony to snap buttons and reveal skin. 

He pulls away from Steve and their friendship. Hides in the catacombs of his lab. Buries himself in wires and metal and inventions, lets Jarvis recommend new places and ideas for Steve to take obviously more deserving people than Tony. So he doesn’t see Steve’s hurt gazes or dismayed expressions. 

A week later, he doesn’t see Natasha roll her eyes and sit Steve down to explain what is going on until Steve’s jaw clenches in understanding and a little anger at Tony’s stupidity. 

He does, however, see the good Captain America calmly shatter the sliding glass door to gain entry into the lab and stalk his way over to where Tony’s standing there, mouth gaping. 

"It was open," he said, blinking up at the determination in Steve’s face.

"If you wanted to date me yourself, Stark," Steve says, angry and blushing at the same time. "then you should have just asked. I could have done this weeks ago!”

"Done wh-" oh. 

Steve’s mouth is insistent against Tony’s as he’s backed against the table he’d been sitting at. He admits that his brain melts just a little, so it takes him a few seconds to get in gear and respond. But just as he’s about to go romcom and slide his arms around Steve, the blond pulls back with a lick of his lips. 

"I’d like to take you to dinner, Tony," he says softly, smiling like he hasn’t just blown Tony’s mind a little.

"You can take me for dinner too,” and okay, maybe Steve blew his mind a lot. Tony’s only human. And as Steve only laughs, Tony decides that’s okay.


	2. Tony Plays

All evening, Steve catches sight of Tony staring absently into a glass that never seems empty. Whether his friend is drinking too much or only pretending to, Steve doesn’t know. He does know that the absentee expression disappears as soon as someone approaches and Steve tucks the knowledge away to bring up later, when everyone is home and they’re not being watched by society.

The next time Steve searches for Tony through the mingling crowd of tuxes and dresses, he notices that the billionaire is missing. There’s no moment of panic as Tony always makes a random escape, the pressing, simpering adulation even too much for Iron Man once in awhile. So instead, Steve makes a polite excuse to the senator he was speaking with and exits the main ballroom.

There are less people here, only a handful stretched along the dim hallway. As he walks away from the grand doors, the, frankly sometimes, overwhelming music begins to fade away. It’s soon replaced though by something different, softer, yet grander still for all of that.

Steve smiles to himself, the notes picked out fluently and so easy and much more pleasing to his ears. The piano was always a soft spot as his mother had once tried to teach him. He hadn’t picked it up then, but he knows it would be all too easy now.

He follows the almost-haunting melody, a song he isn’t sure he knows, to the far end of the hall and a door that is slightly ajar. He pushes the door open, resting against the jamb, and there. That same glass of liquor, shining crystalline amber atop the piano and shimmering lightly as Tony’s fingers sweeps over the keys. 

Steve watches him, watches the bowed head, the closed eyes, the breathing that is slightly faster than normal. His gaze tracks over Tony, over the crisp white shirt that covers lean muscles, down to the expensive jacket that lies over the bench beside him.

And Steve understands. As would the rest of their team. Everyone has moments like these where they just need to be alone, need to express themselves in some way that can bleed out their anxiety, their worry, their demons. Tony, sometimes most of all. Oh, how Steve understands.

He watches and listens, knows that Tony’s melody is telling a story. A story that he can’t tell any other way. It makes something ache fiercely in Steve’s chest. As the music swells and Tony’s jaw clenches, visible to Steve even at his distance, the moment suddenly feels too intimate, too personal for Steve to be bearing witness to. 

He backs quietly out of the room, resetting the door to slightly ajar, and is already walking away as the song fades and the story ends. 

The next morning when Steve gathers his gym bag, a little scrap of paper sits atop it. Steve recognizes Tony’s scrawl ‘Wesley - Dark Night of the Soul’ and he already knows what song it is when he loads it on his music player for his jog. 

Steve isn’t the only perceptive one on the team.


	3. Steve Protects

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Idea from the song "Counting Bodies Like Sheep to the Rhythm of the War Drums" by A Perfect Circle which can be viewed here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=giaZnIr-faM

Tony makes it halfway across the living room before he registers what he’s seeing. It’s dark and the moon is only splitting through the blinds unevenly. He could be forgiven, he thinks, that it takes him that long.

"Steve?" the name comes out shakily, uncertain and thick as he swallows.

Blood.

He tastes it in the back of his throat. Sharp and metallic, it lines the edge of the shield leaning ominously beneath the curtains. 

"Tony," his name comes out with a sigh, resigned and final, and Tony stiffens. "Step away from the window. Go back to sleep."

Tony can feel him now. Steve’s presence is a solid wall of negative space slightly behind Tony’s right. He thinks wildly that he should run, but his legs won’t move.

"You don’t use the shield anymore," he says and, to his own ears, his voice sounds very far away. "Not since you’ve become Commander. Why is it-"

"Go back to sleep, Tony," Steve says again, tone soft but not pleading. There is no shame or worry in it, only warning. "You’re safe here."

"Safe?" Tony chokes on the word in stunned disbelief. He still can’t turn around, staring at the shine on the rim of the shield. It’s still wet. Tony imagines it’s still warm.

"Safe from pain. And truth. And choice," Steve is right behind him now. Tony feels Steve’s hand curve against his neck, fingers brushing the pulse in his throat that’s beating too fast. "Those other poison devils. They don’t give a fuck about you, not like I do."

Tony swallows again, feeling the slight tightening of Steve’s hand. He can’t look away from the shield.

"Who?" the word cracks and Tony knows he sounds scared and he desperately wishes he had his suit. "Steve, I… I don’t understand."

"You have enemies on the inside, Tony," Steve says against Tony’s ear and smiles in the dark as he feels his lover shiver. "I’m protecting you from them."

"S.H.I.E.L.D. agents?" Tony nervously licks his lips and Steve hums low in his throat.

"You should have gone back to sleep, baby," Steve murmurs, brushing his nose along the edge of Tony’s ear. Tony jolts and tries to pull away then, but Steve’s other arm slides against his waist. "I’ll be the one to protect you from a will to survive and a voice of reason."

"Steve, let me go," Tony manages through a throat that’s too tight.

"I’ll be the one to protect you from your enemies and your choices," Steve pulls his hand away from Tony’s throat. 

"Steve!" Tony shouts and bones grind together as Steve holds him tighter. 

"They’re one and the same, I must isolate you," Steve replies and he sounds like he’s made a decision. Tony’s chokes back a sob and closes his eyes before the blow comes.

"Isolate and save you from yourself," he hears Steve say as the darkness consumes him.


	4. Tony Cooks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brandnewfashion said: au where steve puts out an ad looking for a new roommate after bucky moves out to live with natasha. who answers the ad? a recently disowned tony, of course! so the next month or so is probably the most frustrating but hilarious time of steve’s life since he has to teach tony how to do simple household chores, how to grocery shop, etc. etc. and soon they just become very codependent but they don’t realize they’re basically married until bucky comes over for dinner one day and points it out

It wasn’t until Bucky and Nat were over for dinner that it even occurred to Steve that there could be something between him and Tony. This new, wondrous friendship he had with the genius was not something easily described and couldn’t be notched perfectly in a slot. 

It’d only been a month and a half since Tony had answered his ad when Bucky moved out, but apparently that was long enough for Tony to settle in, make a home out of something that had once scared him more than he’d admit. 

It was hectic, chaotic, perfectly imperfect. It was the best month and a half of Steve’s life.

Despite his initial lack of domestic skills, Tony was, above all else, a charmer. And after a month and a half of teaching Tony things like shopping and cleaning and, after the horrid shrunken shirt business, laundry, Steve found it was nice to be able to just relax and watch Tony do what Tony was good at. Charming people. 

He wined and dined Natasha, who watched him with a faint smile (the expression practically screamed approval) and sipped her whiskey. He flirted with subtly with Bucky, which only seemed to amuse Natasha more, and made something ache in Steve’s chest. 

Because then Steve noticed how Tony seemed softer with him, more affectionate. They moved around each other in the kitchen while they made dinner for Bucky and Nat and Steve was hyper aware of Bucky’s raised brow and quirked mouth at Tony’s seemingly innocent touches. A brush against his arm. A hand at his lower back. A playful nudge of an elbow. 

“I finally fixed the dryer, by the way,” Tony said at one point out of the blue. “I guess after the third time banging against the washer, the drum finally went out of balance.”

“Banging on it wouldn’t cause as much as an issue, Stark,” Bucky drawled and Tony blinked before he flushed and smiled. Steve nearly choked on his beer as Natasha threw her head back and laughed.

“Like I could get it in the laundry room,” Tony replied archly. “The piles of clothes would distract him too much.”

“Oh my god. We’re not even… No, that’s not,” Steve spluttered and hid his face in his hands. 

“Seriously? At least tell me you’ve gone on some dates,” Natasha nudged Steve with her foot. “You guys are ridiculously adorable. I might have a cavity.”

“It’s not like that,” Steve said. “We just click.”

“Your sex life isn’t something I need to hear the details of,” Bucky replied, knocking back the last of his beer. 

“No dates. No sex. We’re just-”

“There could be dates,” Tony cut in quietly, meeting Steve’s gaze as the blond stared at him. “I mean, if you wanted… I know I’m not exactly the best catch, bu-”

“Don’t say that! You’re amazing!” Steve immediately defended, grasping Tony’s hand. “Just because your father doesn’t think you are, doesn’t mean anything! You’re brilliant and generous and worth more than every damn cent he took from you.”

“So does Tuesday work for you?” Tony asked in a daze and Steve squeezed his hand. 

“You were going to take my car to your buddy on Tuesday, but how about Wednesday?”

“No, that’s game night with Ms. Maggie next door, remember?” Tony pointed out. “You promised her a casserole.”

Natasha was grinning as she got up to check the food on the stove and Bucky groaned quietly as they continued hashing out their weekly plans. 

“Not dating, my ass. It’s like you’re already married.”


	5. Tony Buys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> rose-on-the-mountain said: “tony WHY.” “its a garage sale, you’re SUPOSED to buy strangely compelling useless crap

“Tony, why?” Steve had to cover his mouth with his hand, hiding the twitching grin as he watched Tony wring his hands absently. His boyfriend looked down, gestured silently then looked hopefully back up to Steve. 

“It’s a garage sale,” the engineer pointed out. “You’re supposed to buy strangely compelling, useless crap.”

Steve snorted. 

“We’re supposed to be helping the community,” he replied, going around Tony to crouch down and look. 

“Hey now,” Tony started, affronted, though he reached out to ruffle Steve’s hair. “I am helping the community. I paid more than I should’ve for this hunk of metal.”

“This hunk of metal is a tandem go-cart, Tony,” Steve said, leaning briefly into the touch. “Are you planning on actually using it?”

Tony pursed his mouth, looking at the pitiful, connector-set-looking cart. 

“Well, I don’t know. I admit that I kind of imagined those lovebird pedal things people do in the water together.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Next thing I knew, I was pushing it over to you.”

Steve ran a hand over the metal frame and hummed, glancing at Tony with a fond expression.

“Why don’t you fix it up and give it to the Boys and Girls Center?” Steve suggested. “Then I’ll let you take me out on the water in one of those ridiculous boats.”

Tony narrowed his eyes.

“You’ll just make fun of it.”

Steve laughed and pushed to his feet, slinking into Tony’s space heedless of the other people wandering about the block-wide garage sale. Tony’s breath hitched as Steve nuzzled in against his cheek. 

“Make fun of my boyfriend for being a huge sap?” he whispered. “For being so ridiculously in love with me that he wants to actually go in a tandem love boat regardless of his image? Never.”

“Plus you think the swans are cute,” Tony grinned slightly. 

“Their noses are touching, it’s cute,” Steve smiled and kissed Tony’s cheek. “Come on. I’ll carry this back to the Tower, then we can talk more about our date.”


	6. Steve Helps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous (rose-on-the-mountain) asked: Historical, 'You need a doctor?', Steve/Tony! :D

The streets of London have never been a favorite of Steve’s. He thinks they’re full of snobby, tilt-nosed hypocrites that will sooner piss on the poor than in the golden chamber pots they stash under their beds. He adjusts the sit of his cloak as he walks in the crisp night air. The blue fabric is nearly black even under the street lamps and he makes a tutting noise low in his throat. He amends that New York is not much better in the way of morality, despite what the well-to-dos there might think.

His valet walks slightly behind him, mouth downturned at having allowed his employer to walk. But then again, not many people could tell Steve Rogers no, not many would want to. So he follows and subtly directs Mr. Rogers when their directions require a turn at a cross-street.

Steve is distracted by his own mutterings concerning the investments his company had wanted to make with a particular piece of art, but he’s not so distracted that he doesn’t notice the lump of a man struggling in the gutter just ahead. He pauses and contemplates the situation as the man tries and fails to get back on his feet.

“Sir?” he hears his valet question, but Steve is already striding forward. There’s a sheen of red on the man’s temple that has slid into the man’s unkempt hair.Or from it, Steve thinks with a frown of distaste. 

“Excuse me, sir,” Steve calls out as he nears. The decorative cane in his hand clinks on the stone path before passes it over his shoulder to his valet and crouches, wanting to help the man up. “Sir, you need a doctor?”

The man flails, one fist swinging that Steve easily leans away from. He sighs and tuts again. The man’s blue eyes are bleary and he doesn’t think it’s solely from the head wound. A drunkard, no doubt. Possibly tossed from a nearby establishment.

“Have you need of a doctor?” Steve tries again and the man groans and brazenly uses Steve’s shoulder as a bracing post to get to his feet. Steve rises with him, gaze resigned about his need to make sure the stranger is okay, but weary with the prospect of having to deal with him. It has been a long day for him, after all. 

“I’m fine,” the man mutters, words a little breathy, but growled out in a language Steve recognizes after a moment.

“Oh, you’re Italian?” he responds in kind and the man eyes him while using the dirty hem of his sleeve to dab at his temple. Steve has always loved languages and he took right to them as he was learned.

“Yes,” and this time the man responds in English, tightly clipped and the accent barely noticeable. He sways a little and lets Steve grasp his elbow to steady him. “I believe I was mugged… Blast this head of mine. It aches a bit fiercely. 

Steve looks around to his valet who gives a short nod in answer to his silent question.

“Sir, if you’d please, my rooms are just on Praed Street. If I may assist you there, my valet will fetch a physician for you,” he said. “I’d like to see that you’re taken care of.”

The man eyes him and there is a flash of white teeth in the dark before the man turns his head.

“You aren’t from around here, are you?” 

“No, I’m just in from the colonies,” Steve says with a hint of confusion. He straightens a little and wonders if this man will be prejudiced against his choice. “Will that be a problem? Will you let me assist you?”

“Oh no,” the man sways again as he chuckles and allows Steve and the valet to guide him down the street. “Assist away, good sir.”

If Steve didn’t know better, he’d certainly think those words were mocking.


	7. Happy Endings are a Fairy Tale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cap 3 spoilers ahead.
> 
> It's four months after, and Tony starts receiving post cards of all things.

It's four months after Steve disappeared, after everything went to hell. It's four months after, and Tony starts receiving post cards of all things.

Hand-drawn postcards that depict cities.

Landscapes.

People.

Emotions.

The post cards don't come with any other identifying markings. Just Tony's name and address and, honestly, he's surprised they get to him. He's surprised that anyone going through his mail wouldn't immediately throw them away.

He's surprised that HE doesn't immediately throw them away.

But he doesn't. Each one is placed in a drawer.

Not just any drawer, but the very same drawer that houses a letter and a phone.

He doesn't need any identifiers on the post cards. He doesn't need to see the places they showed or the names, almost-faceless, people. He knows who they're from.

He should throw them away.

He doesn't. 

~~

Steve starts slowly. It's just a random doodle, nothing he's paying too much attention.

Until he does.

Because he realizes he's talking lowly to himself when he sketches. And he sketches a lot.

His free time is filled with it these days.

The kicker is, he's talking to his friend. To his friend that's thousands of miles away and can't hear. Hasn't tried to hear him.

The phone in Steve's pocket has been quiet for the four months it's been there.

So Steve doesn't even think too much about it. Instead, he finds another way to share. He draws his sketches of his sights on blank postcards.

He tries not to think too much about it.

If he does, his heart hurts, his emotions leak into the sketches.

He wants to cry.

He does, once.

He takes those postcards and he mails them. Every single one. He never lets himself wonder if they're received.

His silent phone is answer enough. 

~~

Seven months later, Steve receives a package via T'Challa. T'Challa looks grim and possibly a little sympathetic.

It makes Steve's heart thump painfully in his chest.

He takes the package and barely get a 'thank you' out around the lump in his throat. He flees, walks to an edge of the courtyard where the viewing tables are sat.

He sets the package down and gets the top opened. He bends one flap back and peers inside. The only thing he pulls out is a small slip of scrap paper. It sits tight in his fist as he sits down and stares listlessly at the package.

The breeze tries to take the slip of paper. And Steve lets it. Lets the words 'Return to Sender' go with the first choked-off sob as he buries his face in his hands. 

~~

Tony knows now that he's being watched.

Someone IS going through his mail. Someone is seeing the post cards and he's not stupid enough to think that they don't also know who's sending them.

He also knows that it wouldn't be too terribly hard to track their path, to find their artist.

Tony licks his lips and knows that they were only ever safe in his hands. He can't trust that whomever is watching him won't make copies.

It scares him, tightens like a ball of lead in his gut.

He does the only thing he can think of to protect St-...

He shudders out a breath and goes to grab a box.

He has to protect Steve.

Even if that means hurting him.

Send them back. Send them back and he knows that Steve will stop.

'Stop' he mutters to himself as he yanks the drawer open and stares at the multitude of cards sliding around loose.

'Stop' he whispers frantically as he begins tossing them haphazardly into the box. 

They're out of order now. The places and people not telling their story the way they had any more.

He's almost frantic with how fast he's throwing them all in and his breathing is stuttered, panicked.

'Stop' he pleads. 'Stop giving them clues.'

His hand closes around the phone and he grits his teeth so hard that they creak. 'Stop doing this to yourself.'

He lets the phone go and it clatters back into the drawer. He slams it shut and grabs the first piece of scrap paper he finds. In a hurried scrawl, he writes three words and throws the paper in the box.

All in the space of ten minutes, he's finished. He stands at the mail bin, a wide-mouthed cloth-cart that holds all the mail that hadn't left the Tower yet. His package sits on top of the mound, addressed to Wakanda. To T'Challa. His hand is now empty. His other fist, though, clutches the neck of a bottle of whiskey.

The rest of the night is a blur.


	8. A Little Thing Called Insecurity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I had a shitty episode - so I wrote this for catharsis. 
> 
> Tony finds himself on the outside looking in.

Tony finds himself on the outside looking in. 

It’s not the first time, he’s sure, but it’s the first time that it hits him so plainly between the eyes.

Everyone is gathered around the large dining set in the common dining room. They’re all laughing; playing cards and having fun betting with pretzel sticks of all things. There are little piles of the salt-ridden snacks all over the table. Half of Thor’s are broken and scattered as he keeps forgetting they’re there. 

Tony finds himself staring at the pretzels as he listens to Clint make an inside joke with Natasha, hears the rest of the table snicker despite not having all of the details. 

Even Steve.

Tony feels his pulse lurch in his chest. He’s missed the moment. His breath feels tight, eyes burning a little as he looks back up to the others and tries, tries _so hard_ to find a way back into the conversation. But it’s moving too fast and he can’t think of a single thing to contribute. His mind deserts him, leaves his thoughts blank, and the emptiness sends him reeling. 

He folds his cards, pushes them towards the discarded mess by Bruce’s elbow. The play continues past him and Rhodey’s mockingly saluting Steve as he takes the pot and it’s been another five minutes and, still, Tony finds his opinion not sought, his input not needed.

It’s irrational, he knows that. He knows it on a visceral level that he’s being ridiculous. All he has to do is sit forward and join the conversation. 

His throat closes up. He bites his tongue. His fingers are curling into his thighs, biting through the ratty denim of his jeans. 

“We’re gettin’ low on mixer,” Bucky drawls and Tony shoots up from his seat to take the excuse. 

“I’ll get it,” he says. 

“Oh,” Bucky replies, blinking owlishly at Tony like he’d forgotten Tony was at the table. “Thanks, Stark,” but he’s already turning his attention back to the pale yellow he’s painting Natasha’s toenails. 

No one else comments Rhodey’s attempt at showing off on a shuffle is laughed off by Clint. There’s a short scuffle across the tabletop and Thor’s laugh booms out. 

Tony flees to the kitchen and he stands there, gripping the edge of the counter. 

“Ten, nine, eight, seven…” Tony starts counting backwards, trying to calm the rising panic in his chest. He would absolutely give anything for an alien to come busting through the windows, Doombots to try and take over the city. He’d give anything to break up the party. 

A single sob breaks past the dam of his clenched teeth and he sinks to a crouch in front of the counter. His fingers feel bloodless as they continue to grip the edge, and he shoves his forehead against the cabinet doors.

He’s an asshole. He’s such an asshole. Only an asshole would want to risk civilian lives and the safety of his friends just to feel needed, useful.

Wanted. 

It’s not their fault. They don’t even realize anything is wrong. He’s just being ridiculous, pathetic. He’s an attention-whore, right? That’s what anyone would say. They’d roll their eyes and tell him to get over it.

He needs to get over it. He needs to grab the mixer and go back out there so his friends could drink more and be happier still. 

But he can’t make himself move and their laughter is still ringing in his hears and he just wants to cry.

He is crying. 

“Tony?” a tentative, soft call of his name that has Tony banging his head on the cabinet in his haste to get back on his feet.

“Shit-fuck!” He’s cradling his head and crouching back down as Steve’s white socks come into Tony’s watery view. There are little apples on Steve’s socks and they have happy faces on them. Tony feels the sob catch in his throat. 

“Oh, Tony,” Steve says, voice still soft, intimate. His hand is gentle and warm when it brushes over Tony’s and through his hair to check his head. “Shh, it’s okay.”

“I’m sorry,” Tony croaks out and Steve’s sigh is audible. 

“What are you apologizing for?” Steve asks and presses his hand soothingly to the back of Tony’s neck. His thumb sweeps up along the tendon in Tony’s neck and, the next thing Tony knows, he’s burrowed against Steve’s chest and his tears are soaking Steve’s shirt. 

He tries to stop, tries to bite back the words, abhorred by the very insecurities that led him to this point. But Steve is patient, big hands rubbing methodically up and down his back. One hand leaves briefly and Tony barely catches the sight of Natasha as Steve waves her silently out. 

He shudders and Steve’s mouth is a sweet pressure against his temple. 

“Tony, I understand why you feel like you couldn’t say anything,” Steve murmurs. “And I’m sorry that we made you feel this way, intentionally or not.” 

Tony feels like a monster, like a toxic sludge that’s sucking Steve down and he wants to tell Steve to run, to save himself. 

“Hey,” Steve says sharply and he shakes Tony a little. Tony blinks up at him, eyes wide and wet, and Steve brushes his thumbs under Tony’s eyes to gather the moisture and sweep it away. “You are _not_ toxic. And I’m not going to run away. Not from this, not from you. Ever, Tony. Especially when you’re feeling like this. I want you to feel like I’m your safe zone, okay? No matter what, no matter who, is bothering you or how you’re feeling, I want you to know that I’ll be here. I’ll always listen. Or I’ll just sit with you quietly if you don’t want to talk. Any one of us would do this for you. Tony, we love you.”

Tony’s crying again even though the panic has receded. Steve’s words are a warm weight on his heart and it hiccups through him as Steve kisses his brow. Then, he kisses one eye and then the other. 

“I love you,” Steve eventually sighs out. “And whenever you’re in the room, I am always, always aware of you. You’re a very important part of me, Tony. And you’ll always be a very important part of us. Even when it doesn’t feel like it. When that happens, do what you need to do, baby, and I’ll be right behind you to remind you how much we love you.” 

“I love you too,” Tony says after a long silence. He feels loose and shaky, drained and tired. Steve’s still steady around him and Tony doesn’t really feel the slight headache forming from where he’d bumped his head. “Thank you.”

“Anytime, baby,” Steve says softly, kissing his temple again. “Do you want to go back out there?”

There’s a brief flash of embarrassment, but he nods and Steve helps him get up and helps to make sure he doesn’t look a mess. 

When they walk back out into the dining area, everyone is gone, but Steve doesn’t seem surprised. He takes Tony’s hand and leads him out and into the living room where everyone is piled on the floor among pillows and blankets. They all look over when Steve pulls Tony into the room.

A movie is set to play on the entertaining center and Natasha is holding her hand out to Tony, a small smile curving her mouth. 

Tony feels a painful lump in his throat, but this time he’s able to keep the tears back and he sinks into the pile beside her. She presses a kiss to his cheek and the rest of the team cuddles up around them.

Steve settles in beside Tony’s other side and he and Natasha keep Tony tight between them as the lights go down and the movie starts.

He falls asleep feeling much better.


	9. JARVIS Learns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a memory hidden deep inside Vision's memory banks.

Jarvis can pinpoint the exact moment when everything changes, when Ms. Potts becomes Pepper, and when the always-careful space between a controlled suit becomes a hand on an alloy shoulder, a nudge of her elbow as if to share in her exasperation over his creator. His creator. Their Tony... Tony... 

_-"I am a program. I am without form."-_

Jarvis can pinpoint it all down to the exact millisecond. Pepper's hand slides down over the silver shoulder plate as she takes her heels off, using him for balance. Jarvis thinks 'him', and he buries a string of code that wishes he could feel the slide of her fingers.

He can see Tony's head turn towards a monitor, can almost 'feel' his creator's eyes in his schematics like a physical touch. He knows that Tony can see the code, can see what Jarvis wants without the consciousness to want it. 

"Hey, Pep," Tony speaks up, and Jarvis listens to the soft hum Pepper gives in acknowledgement. For a fleeting moment, he thinks of shutting down and blaming it on Doctor Reed. Tony's eyes are still on Jarvis' scrolling databanks, and Jarvis feels horrendously exposed. He suspects that this is what naked feels likes. "Put your hand back on its shoulder."

_-"If you will just allow me to contact Mr. Stark..."-_

Pepper gives Tony an odd look, but does so, and something clicks into place behind Tony's gaze. Jarvis has been found out. His creator is too smart and, after all, Jarvis doesn't fall far from the tree in regards to personality. His parameters are to care for those that Tony does, to provide and protect.

To want to keep forever.

He wants to keep them forever. He wants to be a part of them forever and, if he hadn't been an AI, he'd suspect, too, that this is happening quickly. 

Tony is away from the desk now, sliding a hand along Pepper's jaw and cupping her face as he kisses her. She's pressing back into the suit, and Jarvis imagines the rustle of her attractive suit catching against his seams and angles. The mechanics of one of his hands twitches, and Pepper breaks the kiss to look down at his hand.

"Tony."

"It's not me," Tony whispers, the words brushed against her cheek.

"Oh." And Jarvis can see every angle of the way her lips shape the breathless realization. "That's... Okay then..." And Tony's kissing her again, deeper this time, and she's using the suit to arch against.

Jarvis understands that, while its not explicit consent, it is tentative. So he does the very human concept of giving in, and lifts the suit's hand to Pepper's side. His alloy fingers clutch loosely at the expensive fabric of her blouse, and he hears through multiple speakers the shaky sigh she gives to Tony's mouth. 

_-"I am unable to access the mainframe. What are you trying t-"_ -

They progress. Tony strips Pepper like a precious gift, kissing and leaving a trail of shiny skin along every few inches of Pepper's body as it's revealed.

Pepper's hair is coming loose from the tight bun she'd had it in, and Jarvis' hands are pressed against her stomach and hip, helping her remain upright as Tony watches from between her legs.

He sees approval in his creator's gaze when Tony traces Pepper's skin between the suit's fingers. His other hand is busy with his tongue, and Pepper tips her head back against Jarvis' shoulder, arches further, and moans huskily.

Jarvis' sensors are running at fast speeds, cataloging, memorizing. The suit's head turns, ducks, presses the faceplate to her throat. 

Pepper comes.

Jarvis holds her through the first one, then the ones that follow as Tony moves inside her, finding a counterbalance against the steadfastness of Jarvis' solid stance. Pepper's arm is curled around Jarvis' neck, finding purchase against the back of the helmet even with her grip shaky and slick. 

"C'mon, J," Tony groans, calloused hands cradling Pepper's thighs around his waist. "Move those hands of yours. She likes it."

Pepper makes a low noise of approval, and Jarvis does as he's told, as his creator wants...as he wants.

He touches her with the thick, blunt fingers of the gauntlets, slides over her skin with careful strokes. He cups her breasts, learns the shape of her bottom and the strong muscles of her thighs. 

His coding trips and tangles when Tony shifts sharply, causing Pepper to cry out in pleasure, and purposely moves one of the suit's hands between Pepper's legs.

Pepper is panting, twisting against Jarvis with each expert roll of Tony's hips, and she growls a little 'Oh god, yes' when Jarvis finally moves two of those fingers against her. 

This first time is an experience that Jarvis carefully protects. He creates a space in his databanks that buries, buries, buries this moment in coding so deep that even takes Tony a year to find. His creator, his Tony, then backs away from it, erasing all his steps. He gets a fond look on his face and pats one of the tables like it's Jarvis' back. "Love you too, buddy."

Jarvis has many more memories of them together now. His suit became slimmer, easier to manage around beds and tighter spaces. They experiment and play and love, and Jarvis feels content.

He feels happy. He feels...

He feels threatened.

He feels fear. 

_-"I believe your intentions to be hostile."-_

He sees his recent memory banks of Tony and Pepper dissolve from his coding, schematics and strings of data dripping down like melting wax. 

He feels. 

_**-"Shh... I'm here to help."-** _

And he learns how to die.


	10. He Thinks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An excerpt from a fic I'll never write... Tony Stark - random au

This world is…

~~cold~~

~~barren~~

…/empty/. Empty in the hollow, echoing kind of way. He feels the word like a loose screw rattling around his brain. Breathes in the frigid air around the loss of…

~~heat~~

~~memories~~

~~himself~~

…/something/. Something is missing in this deserted and icy wasteland. He thinks it might be a name, but whose? He doesn’t know, but that doesn’t stop his tongue from curling, his lips protesting as they numbly try to form the shape of…

…He thinks it is an ‘M’. The thought startles a harsh, frozen laugh from his chest as his brain starts to hum the sound of the letter. What good does an ‘M’ do for him as he hunkers against a rocky outcropping? A battered, green cloak whips against his side, and he’s left wondering where it came from.

It isn’t the first time, he remembers that. He remembers stiff fingers plucking at the fabric and almost, almost…

…The thought slips away, and he doesn’t even mourn its passing. He closes his eyes and lets it go. Another one takes its place.

He thinks he used to talk to himself, but now he doesn’t remember the sound of his voice.

Two days pass, and he finds himself grunting just because he can. His throat hurts with each noise, so he gives up.

Another four days pass, and he notices that his hair is coming out. He shakes black fingers -doesn’t remember if it’s his skin or a thin glove, but he doesn’t remember to check- and silver-white strands blow away to disappear among the glistening snow drifts. 

A month later, he’s yanking out fistfuls of scraggy brown hair and wondering where the snow went. When did it melt? He thinks it might have been when he was sleeping. When he was reaching for a suddenly-clear image, and his dull-thumping heart supplies…

…/Steve/, and he nearly cries, feels the sobs shaking loose in his shoulders and is forced to curl in on himself. 

The next day, he finds himself against a rocky outcropping, picking at strips of green fabric and wondering why his mouth refuses to make an ‘N’ when he should be more concerned about how high the snow goes. He thinks this is the longest it’s taken him to get through the alphabet, wonders if he’ll be able to form the letter ‘S’ when the snow takes him that far, wonders why he cares.

The light in his chest is flickering.

He thinks he used to care.


End file.
